Fields, farms and faith

When I was six I sat in our little Nazarene church and, with rapt attention, listened wide eyed to the missionary from Africa. I delighted in the picture slides of thatched roof huts, packed dirt trails clogged with donkeys, chickens and people in brightly colored scarves. I wondered at the little children with big smiles (and for some- big swollen bellies.) I fell in love that morning and I knew, absolutely KNEW, that God wanted me to be a missionary.
Every decision I’ve made since then has been with that promise in mind.
I was able to work in Ukraine for a few weeks as a teenager and that just further whetted my desire to “go into all the world” and share the love of Christ.
When I was eighteen I moved to India and was able to minister to children for six months.
Those six months were a time of great joy and satisfaction for me, despite the fact that I became painfully aware of the hurt, discouragement and danger available to missionaries.
When I returned from India, a bit more experienced and towing a fiancé behind me, I thought it would be months, maybe a few years, and I would return.
It’s been twelve.
Twelve years spent living and wondering in Southern, Ohio.
If you have lived in Southern Ohio you may know that it is nothing like India. It’s really not even much like New York (where I am originally from).
For a few years I faithfully believed our call was just around the corner. We put on hold things that would hinder our ability to drop everything and heed the voice of God.
“You can’t go to college right now because what if God calls us and we are stuck with all those loans?”
“We shouldn’t get a pet because what if we have to leave and return to the field? I don’t think it’s easy to bring a Pekinese into Punjab.”
“We should rent so we aren’t saddled with trying to sell a house if we are called back.”
But, after a few more years my bold declarations of faith became questions birthed by disappointment.
“Why hasn’t God seen fit to return us? Are we not really called?”
“Am I not good enough? Not loving enough? Not pure enough?”
“Does he really want me to wither away in this Midwest wasteland?” (I’ve learned to love my adopted state but it did take a while!)
I spent quite a few years teetering on the edge of bitterness over my deferred dream but a few years ago I relegated myself to spending my remaining years never realizing my desire to become a missionary (though I did convince my husband to consider a job out of state when he finished school. Yes, we finally decided loans were worth a degree. )
I came to the realization that I could be quite content living a comfortable life in America, raising my family, buying a bigger house, taking vacations to Disney World. My desire for mission work waned and I plodded through the next few years trying to ignore the leaden rock in my spirit.
My dream, my promise from God, had plunged over the edge and seemed lost to me. I wasn’t fighting the loss anymore I had embraced it and nearly convinced myself it was good enough.
But it wasn’t good enough. There is nothing wrong with not being a career missionary. It is the calling of every Christian to minister to the lost. Some do it here. That’s okay. It just wasn’t okay for us. It wasn’t our dream nor was it our calling.
I’ve grown up in the church. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard messages preached on “the death of a dream” or “the unfulfilled promise”. I knew but I hadn’t internalized.
I never put two and two together and realized God was taking me through that process. I didn’t even realize my dream had died until I caught myself talking about buying a small piece of acreage with a farm house and enough room for some chickens and a big garden. What was I thinking? I never intended on raising my family on a farm. I had always dreamed of raising them on the field.
Not too long ago there was a rebirth in my heart. I lay in bed one morning, snuggled deep under my down comforter. I could hear the voices of my two little girls from downstairs. My husband had just left for work and I was relishing that quite moment before my day began. Suddenly I was struck by a thought.
I could content myself living the American dream. I would have a very happy life. I would fall more deeply in love with my husband, enjoy watching my children grow up and minister when opportunity became available. It would be a good life. But when I came to the end of it I would have a million “what ifs” and a thousand regrets. It would be a nice, satisfying life but it wouldn’t be the life I was called to live.
I don’t want regrets. I don’t merely want to be satisfied. I want to live my life in the fullness He intended for me and, for the Duffy family, that is not growing swiss chard and milking cows. Our calling isn’t on a farm. My vision has always been out. Out there. I see the multitudes. The needs. The pain. The disillusionment. I understand and appreciate that there are lost here in this nation and they need workers but for whatever reason, God saw fit to place in my heart and my husband’s a burning desire to go out.
For a moment it seemed my vision had blurred. Death laid seize to my dream and I lost sight of the multitudes. But like the invisible force that pulls the tide, so my calling has pulled me back.
Birthed anew. I feel like that little girl again…seated on a pew in a church on Long Island. Staring into the faces of a million lost children and knowing, just KNOWING, that God has called me to the nations.
Throughout the Bible children of God have suffered the seeming death of a dream or promise. Their visions for the future shrunk. They doubted, wondered and railed. Abraham, David, Noah, the apostles. All these people had dreams and promises given to them by God and it seemed, for a time, those dreams and promises were delayed, forgotten or dead.
But they weren’t delayed, forgotten or dead.

“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28

Winter comes before spring. The brown, snarled oak tree in front of our house looks dead right now. Not one leaf struggles to maintain its hold. There is no green on it. It’s ugly, stark and stripped of its beauty, but come spring it will, seemingly overnight, burst forth with life. Little buds will appear and unfurl and it will once again be gloriously clothed.
My dreams went through winter but, Oh!, how beautiful it is now that they are waking up. The field I am called to contains a waiting harvest. It’s spring now and I’m ready to sow and reap.
I told the Lord twenty five years ago, “Here I am, Lord. Send me.”
After a long winter I’m able to say it again, “Here I am, Lord. Send me.” The difference is that now I am ready to be sent.

“The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field."
Luke 10:2